Gutters, Top Floors
by triffickie
Summary: Harry was standing on the top of the world, watching everything move under him. DracoxHarry preslash, prompt: corruption.


**Title:** Gutters, Top Floors  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** 1,573  
**Pairing/Characters:** Harry, Draco (pre-slash, maybe)  
**Challenge:** Lucky Dip #18 Corruption for LJ's hugaharry.  
**A/N:** Yeah, I totally tortured Harry. I feel so bad now. Beta thanks to sioniann.

_Power corrupts.   
Absolute power corrupts absolutely._

Harry was standing on the top of the world, watching everything move under him.

Metaphorically speaking, of course. But had he asked them to build him a tower, a tower that reaches the sky, they probably would've. Harry was a hero, after all.

"You should do it," Hermione had said. "They want to elect you, the least you can do is agree to run."

"You'd be great at it," Ron had said, nodding.

They were his friends. He trusted them. He'd said yes.

Harry was 20. But articles said, "He's been taught by the greatest of the greatest. Late Dumbledore himself! He knows things. He knows how to run things." His fellow politicians agreed with these statements. "Such a powerful leader! Making smart moves and carefully thought through decisions!"

Yes, Harry was fantastic. He was the only one who didn't think so.

--

When someone else had offered to make some of Harry's decisions for him, Harry had said yes.

He didn't really need the money and every Galleon that was slid under his door with a thank you note for a legislation he'd just passed, he donated it forward. Hermione told him where.

And the papers wrote, "Harry Potter is a generous Minister."

And the papers wrote, "Only a hero would do good deeds like this!"

--

Draco Malfoy had stopped reading the papers.

He would wake up in the morning, drink tea and go to work. If there was something worthy in the news, someone would tell him about it eventually.

If it was something to do with Harry Potter, he didn't want to know.

--

The business Draco worked for sold potion supplies.

There was absolutely nothing fascinating about it.

Draco had always had a secret desire to be something special, something fascinating and interesting and impressive. All of these adjectives, in the majority's mind at least, described Harry Potter.

Draco was disgusted when he saw Harry's moving picture in the newspaper stands or in covers of books because oh, there were books about Harry. Several ones. Every single one of them focusing on how special he was, how magnificent he was.

But days went by and he carried on living, as did Potter in his shiny little world of being worshiped.

--

It was a big, politics meets influential business people type of conference. Harry was leading it, saying words that had been slid under the door, given to him. After the speech, he sat down, let others continue, thought about what he'd do with the money. The wizarding orphanage or St. Mungos. The orphanage was well off already. It'd probably be St. Mungos. Again. Maybe help the Muggle homeless this time.

He looked up and saw a blond head in the crowd of listeners. He idly thought of Draco Malfoy and let the thought slide.

Then someone said his name and he was asked to speak again.

I don't know what I'm doing, he wanted to say.

Like an angry child, he just wanted to sulk in a corner, repeating, "I don't want to, you can't force me, I don't want to."

He got up and walked to the stand and talked. He heard applause afterwards and smiled. Such a good actor, that Harry Potter, such a great performer. Truly.

--

He went home, shiny, big house and Ginny greeted him in the kitchen.

"Heard the speech, it was brilliant," she whispered after kissing and Harry smiled slightly, feeling even more depressed. He imagined her face if he told her the truth. _I didn't write any of those things. They're paying me to say what I'm saying._

Ginny never noticed. Ginny never paid attention. Ginny just went and did her thing and Harry couldn't blame her because she deserved to be happy.

"You got an owl letter, it's on your desk," Ginny told him as she left the kitchen, the tiniest bounce in her walk.

He went to his home office and opened the letter, read it, read it again, read the check.

The parchment in his hand read,

_Dear Mr Potter,_

We do not want to end our partnership with you. You are far too valuable to us. We're easing your responsibilities, after all, just lending you a hand with your workload. Please accept this check of 5,000 Galleons.

If you still wish to stop co-operating with us, we have to start consulting your family members instead.

No name, no address. Just a threat. With money.

Harry remembered some Muggle ideals shoved down his throat at a very young age. Aunt Petunia had believed in the devil. "By doing bad deeds, Harry, you will sell your soul to Satan and he will drag you down to hell with him."

Then she'd turned to her own son. "And by doing good ones, like Duddiekins, you're offering your soul to Lord and ensuring your place in heaven."

Heaven. And how far it was.

--

They never got to consult Ginny and life went on as it had, as it would, and Harry was elected for a second period in office.

But the grip was tightening and even the press, usually a big fan of Harry's, was starting to get suspicious. The money decreased, and the decisions Harry was reading from hand-writing that was not his started to take effect.

It was obvious there was one company above others.

--

Stephen was writing a letter and his hand was shaking, Draco noticed one work morning.

"What is it?" Draco asked.

"Something for the blokes in the upper floors," Stephen replied, his voice strained.

"The management? What's it about?"

"It's secret, can't tell you," Stephen muttered nervously but Draco had already had a look at the paper and seen it.

"We're paying Minister of Magic?" he asked, lowering his voice.

"You don't know anything about it, and neither do I," Stephen said, his eyes strictly on the paper.

Not forgetting a word he'd read, Draco got back to his work.

--

Harry Potter was crying in the bathroom. Big, wet, pathetic, desperate tears rolled down his cheeks and landed on the tiles.

But this was okay. He did this almost every lunch break. If it was the day he visited the Wizarding Parliament, he usually did it twice. Sometimes, he was angry, beating his fists against walls until they had cuts and bruises on them.

Then he'd just pick himself up and return to his office, back to sit around piles of parchment that he didn't understand and didn't read. Back to asking his secretary for more tea, re-arranging the stacks of parchment so he could read an issue of Quidditch Weekly in peace.

This was his life. He'd finally learned to live with it. He wasn't happy, but he never had been, so it was fine.

--

Drinking, Harry found, was a ladder that lead to a temporary paradise.

Temporary was enough.

He couldn't even see ahead of himself but as long it was temporary, it was fine.

It was fine.

--

Draco had worked late as usual and when he was walking home (a new legislation had banned Apparition in all the blocks of his house and his place of work), it was already dark and evening rain had soaked the asphalt.

As he turned a corner, he bumped into someone, a shorter, dark figure who stood there, swaying in front of Draco as he apologised.

Potter was a mess.

"I'm fine," he insisted, however, but then continued, "I'm so fucking miserable."

He looked at Draco's face but his eyes didn't really seem to register anything and he drunkenly swayed some more, muttering, "I'm fine, I'm an arse but I'm fine, I'm doing just fine, jus' fine.."

He bent his head and Draco looked down on him, this sad little creature, muttering absolute nonsense and Draco wanted to laugh, wanted to kick him, but couldn't. He pitied the fuck up too much.

Pitied, and, maybe, liked, too. He wasn't too sure. It was so unfamiliar, seeing Harry like this. On the lowest of lows.

Tears started dropping onto the gleaming asphalt and Harry sniffed loudly and Draco hated himself as he pulled on Harry's crumpled robes, and put his arms around Harry, holding him like that for a moment. Another.

"It's fine," Harry mumbled against Draco's shoulder but didn't pull away. Couldn't.

For a moment, it really was fine.

"Where do you live?" Draco asked.

"I-- Ginny's," Harry slurred, not able to comprehend Draco's question properly.

"No address?"

"No, well, yes, but." Harry tried to straighten his head and shook it for a while. Didn't help much. "Ginny," he repeated.

"Right," Draco said, not following Harry's logic. "You can crash at my place."

Harry recognised the voice but nodded. Draco supported him as they walked down the street together. Not really sure why he was doing what he was doing, he blamed it all on pity. He couldn't kick a man who was down. Even if he would've wanted to. Which he sadly didn't. There was that cursed liking-factor involved. Draco ignored it and kept walking, supporting the drunken, corrupt Minister of Magic by the shoulders.

"Thanks," Harry said, as they turned another corner and Draco had helped him not fall over himself, and continued, "Are you Satan?"

"Don't mention it," Draco replied. "Who's Satan?"

Harry didn't answer. He simply didn't have the strength to.


End file.
